Name One
by Len'sMind
Summary: September 7th, 1783. All the curtains were drawn, but the door was unlocked. France couldn't help but think England was expecting him. (Rated T for the odd swearword. A little bit of Fruk)


I was bored, and some how this is the result. I may (_may_) add another chapter and make it more of an actual Fruk story, but I've yet to decide. Anyways, enjoy! *dances away*

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_September 7__th__, 1783_

The halls were eerily quiet; not that France had expected anything else. All the curtains were drawn and no one had answered when he'd knocked and called through the letter box; however, the door had been left unlocked. That presented France with two possible explanations: one, that the house owner was no in state to remember to lock up; two, that he'd been expecting the Frenchman's arrival, and wanted him to come in.

Something told France that if it was the second option, it had been done unconsciously.

Still, his stomach was starting to twist uncomfortably as he wandered through the unlit hallways. The air was stuffy and unpleasant; as if neither window nor door had been opened for days. Actually, that was probably exactly what had happened.

He finally reached the door he'd been searching for; though it had certainly not been a room he'd been in often, he knew it's placement in the big house well enough. He didn't knock this time, it was doubtful he'd get a reply, so he simply twisted the handle and stepped inside.

The room was still as stuffy and dark as the rest of the house, but it was so much worse. Smoke, from god-knew how many cigarettes clogged up the rest of the air, mixed alongside a thick scent of alcohol. The other curtains in the house had been closed, but these ones were shut so carefully as if to not let the tiniest slither of daylight sneak through.

Even then, the bed was perfectly made – not a single crease on the straight bedcovers – and the floor was surprisingly clear of any mess. It was only by the burnt out fireplace, that any real disorder could be found. The coffee table was littered with bottles – both empty and full, as well as loose papers, and ashtrays galore. Clothes, or, to be more precise, a torn and soiled uniform, was thrown across the back of the armchair carelessly. It was the little bubble of chaos amongst order.

France purposefully focused on every minute detail he could find before turning his eyes to the man who sat slumped in the sofa. He couldn't yet see the man's face, and for a moment, France wondered if he really wanted to.

"Didn't think you'd actually show up, you bloody frog."

The words that reached France's ears weren't filled with the usual scorn and mocking; they were drenched in too many emotions for him to pick out and understand.

Trying to force a smile on his face, and refusing to step any closer, France shrugged. "How could I miss seeing you at your worst, _Angleterre_?"

England let out something similar to a scoff, but it came out croaky and weak. He reached forward and picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table, holding them up over his head.

"Want one?"

"I feel like I'm smoking just by breathing in here," France sighed and moved towards the window. "Get some fresh air in here and I might be able to enjoy one a little more."

"Don't!"

Freezing just before he tore the curtains apart, France glanced back over his shoulder hesitantly. England hadn't turned around yet.

"I don't want…" The Englishman's hand tightened on the back of the sofa as he turned just slightly. "The light hurts my eyes…"

_Sure it does,_ France thought to himself. He stepped away from the window and sighed. He knew exactly why England didn't want the curtains open…

He didn't want to be seen in the state he was in. Not clearly, anyway.

Well, with no other ideas, France made his way across to the seats. With each step, a little more of England came into view.

He still wore his undershirt, but had at least pulled on a new(er) pair of trousers. Though, both items of clothing looked as scruffy and worn as the rest of the nation. His hair mustn't have been washed or even brushed in days – France swore it didn't even look as bright as it used to. Bandages were wrapped around his arm and ankle, whilst cuts and bruises covered much more of his visible skin; France got the feeling there were just more injuries under his clothes. In one hand he held a half-empty bottle of – what looked like – rum, and the other stretched out to pick up cigarette that he must have left sitting on the edge of an ashtray.

"Going back to your pirate days?" France asked with a strained smirk as he nodded to the rum.

England looked at the bottle, and then to France. "The pirate days were pretty good, y'know? Wasn't as lonely as I feel today." He said it with a smile, one that France would normally think was a teasing one… but the eyes told a different story. There were dull and… just… dead.

He dropped his eyes, unable to keep looking at England much longer. His hand moved slightly in order to touch the sleeve of the uniform on the back of the armchair. There was a rip in the cuff, one that may have started out slight – fraying the edges and causing irritation for the wearing – but it had just torn more and more and now it didn't end until much further up the sleeve.

He had made that rip.

It was strange. France could barely remember all the times he and England had fought – a lot of the time, it hadn't even been over anything important. He couldn't tell you the amount of injuries he'd caused this country, couldn't tell you the amount of rips in clothes he'd made. And yet, throughout it all, he'd never once felt truly guilty. Of course, England hadn't felt guilty either; they were both at fault and, at the end of the day, they'd both joke about it later.

This time it was different.

"England…"

"Why did you help him?"

There it was. The question France hadn't wanted to be asked. The question that made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Why did you help him…?"

England tipped his head back and let the rum run down his throat. He kept gulping, not pausing for a breath, until he finished the bottle and could drop it down on the table. His hands shook as he reached for a new one.

"Just because you have a grudge?" England's hands desperately clawed at the bottle's top until he pried it away. "Did you just want to get another hit at me?"

He lifted the bottle, and took to gulping it back once more. This time though, the longer he drank, the more he struggled. His chest shook and lurched, like he was choking. Soon, he realised he wouldn't be able to drink any more.

"WHY?"

He threw the bottle at the ground. It smashed, sending the rum spilling out onto the rug. England didn't react, just dropped his head into his hands as his shoulders joined the shaking.

"Why did you… how could you…?"

Finally moving over, France sat himself down on the sofa next to England. He stared at his hands for a moment, before sighing softly and putting his arm around the fellow nation.

"_Désolé…_"

England's sobs grew louder, more violent. France tightened his hold and pulled him closer.

"_Désolé, Angleterre._"

He whispered the words over and over again. Wishing they could clear away all that had happened, and knowing they couldn't. Knowing they shouldn't.

"America... why…?"

If it were anyone else, at any other time, perhaps France may have lectured them. You can't keep a hold of a nation forever, especially one as head-strong as America. Sooner or later, England would have had to let him go. Now though, those words would do nothing. So all he could do was apologise.

As the time ticked on, England's sobs finally grew quieter. France's hold didn't slacken. Instead, as England slumped further and further into him, France leaned back in the sofa and tightened his grip.

Hiding away against France's chest, England sniffed loudly.

"He left me," he murmured.

"_Non_, he left your control," France corrected him. "He's not left _you_."

"He did… he has," England's fingers tightened around France's shirt. "He hates me and he's gone."

What was he meant to say? There wasn't much he could do, not when England was like this. He'd always been a stubborn idiot.

"Everyone leaves… huh?"

"Not everyone."

England let out a sharp laugh. Pushing himself away from France, he rubbed his eyes. "Name one person who hasn't. Just one."

Reaching back out to him, France cupped England's face in his hands and forced him to look at him properly for the first time today. For the first time since he'd watched England fall to his knees on that American battle field.

"Me."

England's whole face twitched as more tears threatened. Instead, he frowned, trying to pry France's hands away from his cheeks.

"You've never left, because you've never been there, frog."

"Oh, _Angleterre_," France leaned forward, touching their foreheads together and sighing. "I've always been here."

Life seemed to seep back into England's eyes as they widened. France could almost see him silently repeating those words over and over in his head. No doubt analysing every gap and side of the claim. No, it wasn't a claim; it was the god-honest truth. No matter how many times they fought and disagreed, how often they joined opposing sides of wars just to get some hits at each other; at the end of the day, France would also come right back to this house to be there for the little, big-headed island across the channel whenever it was needed.

Smiling softly, France lifted his head and pushed his lips against England's forehead. When he pulled back, he saw fresh tears rolling down the other nation's face. England bit his lip as he tried to hold them back.

"You..."

"And this is where I'll always be."


End file.
